Chronicle of a Khajiit Dragonborn
by Abyssiniax
Summary: Life is hard in the cold land of Skyrim even for a hard-hearted Nord. But even tougher for a Khajiit, borne of everything the 'proud' people loathe. Of fur, magic and shadow, one young Khajiit will learn the full extent of Nord incompetence, as well as her own, when she is destined to become the Nord's most famous legendary hero. (non-canonical after Unbound)


**_XX Day, XX Month, XX Year_**

**_Subject: To the Border_**

_My long journey has taken me to this place. The cold land of Skyrim. I've trekked far since Summerset and I cannot say I am ecstatic to trade the prejudice of the Altmer for the racism of the Nords. Even as I ride aboard this carriage of immigrants I feel the cold sting of their glares. For all their distrust I know they are not misled. I am of shadow, of magic and of fur. Fur I cannot change, they know this, yet magic to them is a sky to a snake, shadow a choice borne from only foul thoughts yet brought from empty pockets and growling bellies. Cliched yet justified. I would drain any pocket before I allowed myself to go without. I hope there are many full pockets in this land._

_I set the journal down. Some of the closest vagrants shuffled away from me with piercing glares and disgruntled mumbles. I only smirked under the ragged hood. Serves them right for reading over my shoulder. Albeit I meant every word, whether it was those they wanted to hear or not. But they needn't worry their prejudiced minds; my endeavors in neighboring provinces proved to be quite worth the effort. I had all the coin I needed to face any hardship Skyrim had to offer._

* * *

And speak of the Daedra, the icy cold wind buffeted the wagon, rocking the entire cart, and I felt a little sympathy for those huddled against the flimsy tarp. But I felt no desire to trade places, even for a woman with a shivering child who sat near the edge. Whether or not it was morally right or not did not mean much to me; all I cared was if it would affect my own well-being. And in this case, I would not consider picking ice from my fur a benefit. So I merely made myself comfortable on the wooden floor of the wagon, pressed against a crowd of filthy men, and kept my mind off the blistering cold by focusing on a glittering necklace that one man clutched to his chest as a prayer. I'd make sure to 'liberate' it from him before my way out.

Hours passed before the cold subsided. Harsh sunlight streamed into the holes in the tarp, and the shouts of the caravan leaders woke whoever managed to sleep in the rickety wagon. I wasn't one such lucky enough to sleep, not among such rats, but I was rattled from a light doze when the caravan halted to a stop. One man raised his head, muttering, "We there yet?"

His question was unanswered, for a hand tore away the tarp and tossed a basket full of bread onto the floor of the wagon. There was immediately an uproar, men and women skittering across the wood to grab at the morsels. I was lucky enough that a rather plump piece of bread happened to roll up beside me. I snatched it up before three pairs of hands could pounce on it, and huddled up under my cloak, the bread safely in my clutches. I poked the tip of the bread from underneath and quietly nibbled, curling my lip at whoever dared come close. This was how the immigration caravans went, starving all day and night, waiting for food in the morning. There were no rules; whoever got to the food first ate, regardless of gender, age, race. The strong ate, the weak went without. Of course, you could spend a few extra Septims to buy yourself some food from the caravan leaders, but seldom anyone had any such gold to spare. I could, yet I found it easier to get my food for free. And I repeated that thought even as I made eye contact with the starving child.

"Trade a piece?" whispered a hoarse voice. A man completely submerged in scarves and thick robes and animal pelts sat in the small corner, currently unoccupied as the majority of the men fought for the loaves of bread. One hand tapped against the wood. A gold Septim rested between his index and middle finger. I barely spared him a glance. "Hardly costs a single coin." I muttered, running my tongue over my jaw to lap up the crumbs. I chewed quietly for a minute more, putting him completely out of my mind, until the ragged man spoke again. "Trade a piece?"

I felt a growl rising up in my throat but froze when a sharp red light caught my eye. I gazed over and found the single Septim replaced with a shining, pristine ruby. I gaped at him, almost choking on the bread I chewed. What kind of peasant was he!? I stuttered for a moment and the man let out a throaty chuckle. "A kind of woman you are, to trade life for wealth."

Guilty as charged, I thought to myself, still staring at the mountain of furs in completely disbelief. "W-what kind of man you are, to trade a gem like that for a piece of bread!" I exclaimed.

He waved a finger. "Ah, but you have the bread and I have the gem." he tapped the ruby on the wood. "Or shall we keep ours?"

My hands fumbled and I held the loaf out to him. "T-take it."

He chuckled again and slid the gem over to me. My tail curled it in the last few feet and I scooped it up, holding it to the light. It was real...

The weight of the cart shifted and I watched, still in awe, as the cloaked man rose up, bread in hand, and stepped across the carpet of writing men to the edge of the wagon. The hungry child's face lit up as he handed the bread to the mother, who burst into tears and praised blessings upon him. The man shook his head and lifted a bony finger, pointing straight at me. The ragged woman beamed at me and waved a little shyly, her face stained with her own tears. I felt my ears flatten under my hood and I shamefully curled up, digging my claws into the dirty robe.

Suddenly the ruby I held in my palm didn't seem as shiny now.


End file.
